and it is stupefaction to remain in ignorance—tỏ shut up all the avenues by which the life of your fellow-men might become known to you.

The worst of all hobbies are those that people think they can get money at. They shoot their money down like corn out of a sack then.

You see, Tom, the world goes on at a smarter pace now than it did when I was a young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much such a strapping youngster as you, a man expected to pull between the shafts the best part of his life, before he got the whip in his hand. The looms went slowish, and fashions didn't alter quite so fast: I'd a best suit that lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower scale, sir in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam, you see, that has made the difference: it drives on every wheel double pace, and the wheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr. Stephen Guest said at the anniversary dinner (he hits these things off wonderfully, considering he's seen nothing of business). I don't find fault with the change, as some people do. Trade, sir, opens a man's eyes; and if the population is to get thicker upon the ground, as it's doing, the world must use its wits at inventions of one sort or other. I know I've done my share as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine thing to make two ears of corn grow where only one grew before; but, sir, it's a fine thing, too, to further the exchange of commodities, and bring the grains of corn to the mouths that are hungry.

And that's our line of business; and I consider it as honourable a position as a man can hold, to be connected with it.

The world isn't made of pen, ink, and paper, and if you're to get on in the world, young man, you must know what the world's made of.

It wasn't by getting

I'll tell you how I got on. astride a stick, and thinking it would turn into a horse, if I sat on it long enough. I kept iny eyes and ears open, sir, and I wasn't too fond of my own back, and I made my master's interest my own.

If I got places, sir, it was because I made myself fit for 'em. If you want to slip into a round hole, you must make a ball of yourself—that's where it is.

You'll have to begin at a low round of the ladder, let me tell you, if you mean to get on in life.

You youngsters now-a-days think you're to begin with living well and working easy: you've no notion of running afoot before you get on horseback.

You must remember it isn't only laying hold of a rope—you must go on pulling. It's the mistake you lads make that have got nothing either in your brains

or your pocket, to think you've got a better start in the world if you stick yourselves in a place where you can keep your coats clean, and have the shop-wenches take you for fine gentlemen. That wasn't the way I started, young man: when I was sixteen, my jacket smelt of tar, and I wasn't afraid of handling cheeses. That's the reason I can wear good broadcloth now, and have my legs under the same table with the heads of the best firms in St. Ogg's.

I'll never pull my coat off before I go to bed. I shall give Tom an eddication an' put him to a business, as he may make a nest for himself, an' not want to push me out o' mine. Pretty well if he gets it when I'm

dead an' gone. I shan't be put off wi' spoon-meat

afore I've lost my teeth.

All the learnin' my father ever paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and the alphabet at th' other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks o' these fellows as talk fine and write with a flourish. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and things.

Not but what, if the world had been left as God made it, I could ha' seen my way, and held my own wi' the best of 'em; but things have got so twisted round and wrapped up i' unreasonable words, as aren't a bit like 'em, as I'm clean at fault, often an' often. Everything winds about so—the more straightforrard you are, the more you're puzzled.

K

The law 's made to take care o' raskills.

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I want Tom to know figures, and write like print, and see into things quick, and know what folks mean, and how to wrap things up in words as aren't actionable. It's an uncommon fine thing, that is, when you can let a man know what you think of him without paying for it.

It's a pity but what Maggie 'd been the lad—she 'd ha' been a match for the lawyers, she would. It's the wonderful'st thing as I picked the mother because she wasn't o'er 'cute-bein' a good-looking woman too, an' come of a rare family for managing; but I picked her from her sisters o' purpose, 'cause she was a bit weak, like; for I wasn't agoin' to be told the rights o' things by my own fireside. But you see when a man's got brains himself, there's no knowing where they'll run to; an' a pleasant sort o' soft woman may go on breeding you stupid lads and 'cute wenches, till it's like as if the world was turned topsy-turvy. It's an uncommon puzzlin' thing.

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That's the worst on't wi' the crossing o' breeds: you can never justly calkilate what'll come on't.

That's the fault I have to find wi' you, Bessy; if you see a stick i' the road, you're allays thinkin' you can't step over it. You'd want me not to hire a good waggoner, 'cause he'd got a mole on his face.

An over-'cute woman's no better nor a long-tailed sheep-she'll fetch none the bigger price for that.

Fine feathers make fine birds. I see nothing to admire so much in those diminutive women; they look silly by the side o' the men-out o' proportion. When I chose my wife, I chose her the right sizeneither too little nor too big.

Mr. Tulliver.-The old mill 'ud miss me, I think, Luke. There's a story as when the mill changes hands, the river's angry-I've heard my father say it many a time. There's no telling whether there mayn't be summat in the story, for this is a puzzling world, and Old Harry's got a finger in it—it's been too many for me, I know.

Luke.-Ay, sir, what wi' the rust on the wheat, an' the firin' o' the ricks an' that, as I've seen i' my time— things often looks comical: there's the bacon fat wi' our last pig runs away like butter-it leaves nought but a scratchin'.

Mr. Tulliver.-I should go off my head in a new place. I should be like as if I'd lost my way. It's all hard, whichever way I look at it-the harness 'ull gall me—but it 'ud be summat to draw along the old road, instead of a new un.

Luke.-Ay, sir, you'd be a deal better here nor in some new place. I can't abide new places mysen: things is allays awk'ard-narrow-wheeled waggins, belike, and the stiles all another sort, an' oat-cake i' some places, tow'rt th' head o' the Floss, there. It's poor work, changing your country-side.